


Tabitha

by DarkLadyAthara



Category: Cinderella (2015), Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Cinderella - All Media Types
Genre: Different Perspective, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Reimagining, Retelling, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18456005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkLadyAthara/pseuds/DarkLadyAthara
Summary: I was born Tabitha Morend, the only child and heir to a father not long for the world. I am the only daughter of a mother who I'm certain resented me and who did her best to remind me I was little more than nothing.Then I was Tabitha Morend-Amherst, a Viscountess and the talk of the Kingdom, beautiful and popular. I became the mother of two daughters. Then I was Tabitha Morend-Brose, taking yet another name when I married a second time.You know me, and you likely hate me. Everyone does. But then, my story has only ever been told from the perspective of my Stepdaughter...a pretty little girl with a predilection for cinder-smudged cheeks whom everyone knows as Cinderella.A Cinderella Reimagining from a whole new perspective





	1. .I.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, full disclosure - this is actually an original story I'm working on. *BUT* since it is based on a fairy tale, it also sort of counts as a fanfiction. Further, the idea actually came about from a random thought I had while watching Disney's live action version of Cinderella. Hence my excuse for posting it as a 'fanfiction'.... ;)
> 
> And since I'm looking for feedback to help me make it the best story I can, I'm going to post what I've got 'finished' to this point in time to see what people think! If it's working, if my first real foray into First Person PoV is effective (or if it's not...I'm not entirely convinced since I'm not usually a fan of 1st PoV), that sort of thing. And since I have so many wonderful readers on the different FF sites I post on and so many wonderful readers on this site in general? I figured why not post it and see what people think!
> 
> So if any of you lovelies decide to give it a go, I hope you enjoy and, whether you do or don't, I very much hope you'll consider leaving a review to let me know what you think!
> 
> Reviews and especially Feedback are most enthusiastically welcome!
> 
> Happy Reading, Lovelies!

It's funny. I never thought I'd look back fondly on a funeral, especially not my beloved Papa's. But yet I do.

Oh, I don't look back on the funeral itself with fondness. No. I was utterly devastated when my nurse came into my room one afternoon telling me that my Papa, my dear Papa, had taken ill and left me alone with Nurse and my much less loveable Mother.

My Mother, Lady Luvenia Warin-Morend, alternated between wailing over our ruin and coldly surveying our circumstances. I remember her taking my thin shoulders in her hard hands, looking me right in the eye and saying: "It is all up to you now, Tabitha. You will have to marry well." I was six.

But while the funeral itself was solemn and stately, the reception afterward was dour. I wanted so badly to cry. Mother merely sniffed at my tears and told me to get a better handle on myself, instructing my nurse to scold me for acting like an infant.

My nurse did as she was told. She scolded me and sent me to sit in the corner of the library to compose myself.

Richard had found me there. He'd been eight at that time, with the bright, innocent eyes that came with that age. I hadn't known him well. He was just a boy that I knew, then. His family came to visit during the summers to enjoy my Papa's country estate. But then he asked if I wanted to go outside and, because being inside among all the grieving and consoling adults was slowly crushing me until I felt like a crumpled piece of paper on the floor, I did.

So we went outside and played. I got severely scolded by both Nurse and Mother afterward—a rare treat—but it was worth it. There had been a litter of puppies in Papa's kennel that we played with. One little brindled one tore my dress in his excitement to lick my face. Then we went and played among the cherry trees in the orchard. They'd been in season, So Richard and I ruined our dinner on lovely ripe cherries. I got scolded for that too.

My Mother was most unhappy with me later, lamenting my childish behaviour. But it still ended up being a lovely day. And I had few of those, really. Papa had been my sunshine, but he'd also been away a lot at Court. Mother had little real time for me and I was almost too old to have Nurse around anymore. I didn't really have any friends, either. Any children my age on or around my Papa's Estate were 'beneath me,' as my Mother put it. My time had been spent in the schoolroom, the nursery or the sitting room, learning how to be a proper lady, the future wife of a great lord.

I thought that all very silly then. But Mother was firm.

Now I am fourteen; practically an adult.

And I am to be married.

Mother was not exaggerating when she said she would ensure I made a good marriage to assure my security. So I am to be married to Josef Amherst, the son of a Lord, Viscount Amherst. She says she supposes I am ready, sceptical when my governess says I am a most accomplished young woman, ready to become the lady of my own household. But I only hesitantly think I am as ready as she says. I do agree that I have been well educated; I am well read; I have a steady hand at sewing, embroidery, a little weaving and penmanship, though I am not so steady at maths and accounts (I will have the help of a steward when I have to run a household, I am assured); I know how to dance, sing, make pleasant conversation and play seven different card games. I am well-mannered, refined and noble in my behaviour and have learned the proper way to address guests of any given rank, how to seat them at a formal dinner, how to organize a household in the proper fashion and how to ensure that servants are properly trained and attired to give the best possible impression. I know now how to entertain and put up any guest, how to manage disobedient servants and how to plan a banquet, or any formal occasion, really.

It is only for Richard that a little part of me is anxious to be a bride. Mother laughed when I asked her if I would be permitted to be Richard's friend when I am married. "Of course not," she had scoffed, "proper young ladies do not have male friends," and that it is a lesson I will have to keep reminding myself of until I forget that Richard is more than an acquaintance.

For the first time after being told of my impending marriage my heart sunk.

Apparently Richard had been my father's choice to be my future husband. Like my husband-to-be, he is a Lord's son, though a lesser one; more like the son of a landed knight. A Noble in name only, my mother ridiculed when I asked her why I wasn't to marry Richard anymore.

That's part of why he'd been at Papa's funeral. His father, Baron Tresler, had been my Papa's good friend, and they had been since childhood. Though Mother had been uncertain about it, I had been fostered in the Meyer household from the age of eight on until just before my fourteenth birthday, when Mother decided it was time for me to come home and marry. Viscount Meyer was my Papa's cousin, and Papa and Baron Tresler had both been fostered with the Viscount's father, my Great-uncle. Mother debated not allowing me to go to the Meyer Estate as my Papa had planned, save that her new husband, Captain Steffen, thought it was a good idea. The Meyers are a good family, and the Viscount has a good reputation in the King's court. But then, I also think my Stepfather wanted me out of the way. I don't believe he likes me very much. Especially since my father's modest fortune and title, minor as it is, was left to me as his only heir, and Mother was granted only a stipend—which is, truthfully, quite ample enough given that she also has her own inheritance from her family to draw from.

But those years at the Meyer Estate were good years. Lady Meyer was a steady, firm woman, if somewhat hard at times, but she was fair in a way my Mother never has been. I learned nearly everything I know about how to be a real noblewoman from her. She believed in giving praise when it was due as compared to Mother, who believes praise is soft, and is to be avoided; 'there was always room for improvement no matter how perfectly it is done' might as well be Mother's motto. Viscount Meyer, like my own Papa, was often away but he was a pleasant enough man. I really had little to do with him.

What made those years good years was Richard. Baron Tresler had decided, like my Papa, to send his children to the Meyer household to further their educations as well. There, Richard became my friend. We went riding together, took some of our lessons together when we could, and played cards and checkers in the evenings. It was pleasant. Richard was one of the few who didn't judge me, who actually seemed to like me. My governess, Miss Bonner, was almost ambivalent toward me, ensuring only that I was attending my studies and behaving properly, reporting to my Mother about my progress. She did judge me. All the time. I could not focus on my lessons or I was making my stitches too large or my steps weren't precise and lady-like. My table etiquette was sloppy. My skirts were crumpled. I wasn't paying enough attention to the menus I was supposed to be checking. I wasn't properly checking the linens when it was my turn to manage the Maids. I wasn't sitting straight. I'd allowed my hair to be mussed. I was riding like a spitfire, not a noblewoman. There was always something for her to criticize. Some days it was like she was a mere mouthpiece for my Mother; she had the same criticisms.

Richard didn't care. He thought Bonner's criticisms were silly. I can ride, I'm witty and I can make him laugh. That's what was important to him. I can beat him at a game of checkers better than half the time. He offers to help me with my maths and I coach him on his penmanship, which was atrocious, let me say, before I started helping him. I was certainly better company than his sisters, he insisted. Gabriella and Yolande Tresler were three and five years older than Richard, respectively. They had little interest in playing with him anymore, as they said he was getting too old for such things, and virtually ignored me, though Yolande did teach me a few tricks to help with my needlepoint and Gabriella did try to help me with my arithmetic—she was not quite so successful.

But now, even as my Mother has recalled me home, I can't help but think that our pleasant time in each other's company was coming to an end regardless. He was about to be sent home himself before being sent on to another Great Lord's house to continue his education. More than that, our worlds were separating anyway. I was entering womanhood, him manhood. Perhaps it was a good thing, I can't help but think. He was beginning to act differently around me anyway. He would hesitate to take my hand when we spent evenings in the drawing room or would avoid looking at me when we went riding. He was beginning to grow distant with me. It hurt a little at first. Perhaps it was a sign that we would have grown apart as he became more interested in sporting and other more gentlemanly pursuits than being friends with a girl. Perhaps I just wasn't as interesting to him. Gabriella had snickered when I asked her if Richard didn't like me as much as he had, if that was the reason behind the change I saw in him. She had slyly answered back that he was starting to see me as a  _girl_  rather than just his friend. I don't think that's the case. I've seen him around girls that he sees as  _girls_. He blushes and can't help but sneak glimpses at them. I've noticed this especially around Lord Meyer's daughter, Fiona. At Christmas, when Fiona and her new husband Sir Bennard visited the Meyer Manor, Richard hadn't been able to keep his eyes off the blonde beauty. Same with the baker's daughter, and the cooper's daughter down in the village... Truly, when I think about it, it was beginning to feel like he was looking at every girl or young woman but me.

It took sometime to realize that the little flicker of something in my chest when he did that was jealousy.

I was a rather plain, unremarkable little girl, something my statuesque mother lamented of bluntly and often. But that was before I went away. I have grown in my years away from home. I am not so self-effacing that I cannot recognize that I am growing more beautiful as I get older. My dark hair has grown thicker and more luxurious. My skin, though plagued with blemishes from time to time that I am assured is merely a phase, is pale and my cheeks often flush prettily when I am happy. My eyes, dark like my Papa's were, are pleasing and sharp like my Mother's. I am also getting taller and my figure has begun to fill out, so I am hoping that I will inherit my mother's height and curves. My running around and playing and climbing with Richard has lent me better coordination and has helped me become graceful in my movement. When I stepped out of the carriage when I arrived home, her appraising look was less critical than I had anticipated. Her nose still wrinkled at the way my dress was a little crumpled and that my hair was no longer perfectly styled and at my lack of restraint as I escaped the stuffy carriage, but she did not comment disparagingly on my features.

Yet Richard still only looks at me as a girl, not a  _girl_. And I find a little part of me wishes he would notice that I'm nearly a woman.

Nevertheless, the memory of Richard doing his utmost to cheer me up on one of the most distressing days of my life is a good memory, and it keeps my dismay at spending the next two years solely in my mother's company at bay. It is far easier to tune her out as I sit here, in her sitting room without even my embroidery to distract me, as she complains, yet again, at how my Papa had deliberately neglected her, instead granting me his title and the majority of his estate. Not that it was much.

"I warn you, Tabitha. Put your trust in men and you will only ever be trod upon, used and taken for granted. I gave your Father a fortune when I married him, helping to save his failing Estate, and what did he do, he squandered it, lending it out to help no-account lazes who would be better off drowning in their self-made problems. It is only too fortunate that most of my own Father's Estate is held in trust for my own heir. Who knows what your foolish Papa would have done with it, had he been allowed to do with it as he willed." I withhold a weary sigh, this is not the first time I have heard this tirade against my Papa. She first railed on about him not days after his funeral, after his will was read. After that, it was often every few weeks that she would pull out her list of laments, dust them off, and regale me with how my Papa had ruined her—and me, she sometimes belatedly remembered. I haven't even been home two months, and this is the third time I have heard it.

"It is only a good thing that Captain Steffan was kind enough to take us in when your father left us broke and starving for want of a good living," she says bitterly, the gratitude I always imagine she should feel toward her second husband, given how she describes his service to us, is always lost in her resentment of her circumstances. My Papa's Estate was not in good health upon his death, and within a year had fallen to the point where the only thing my Mother could do to pay off the Estate's debts was to sell it. All that is left of my inheritance is my Papa's title of Baron, which has fallen to me as his only child, and a humble treasury filled with what was left over from the sale of the Manor and the lands. Further, not even a whole year after my Papa's death Mother remarried. For our security, she insisted.

"If only your Papa hadn't been such a fool as to lend so much money to Baron Tresler, much good as it did him." she disparages, her voice dropping as her energy trails off with the end of her speech. It is a new bit of information, though. My eyes dart up, and I momentarily forget Mother's insistence that I need to keep my silly thoughts to myself.

"Baron Tresler?" I blurt, surprised, "Papa lent him money?" Mother's narrowed eyes meet mine. I immediately drop my gaze, knowing she will lecture me for my disrespect if I do not. She looks momentarily perplexed that this surprises me, as though the whole world knows that my Papa lending his dear friend money brought on our own family's ruin.

"Of course, silly girl," she hisses, "had your dear Papa not allowed himself to be persuaded by Baron Tresler to squander our fortune to fix his own problems, we would not be destitute as we are. You would be a Baroness with money and land and I would have the running of the Estate as I deserve. You would certainly be marrying much higher than a Viscount's son." This confuses me. I know Papa was a Baron of slightly higher standing than Baron Tresler, but he still was not terribly prominent either. Even if I had Papa's lands and money, attracting a Viscount's son would still be an achievement. It seems unlikely to me than anyone of greater rank than Viscount Amherst would bother to notice me even if I did have lands to go with my title.

Even through my confusion, I notice my Mother's indignation is not only directed at my Papa this time, but also—judging by the way she snaps out the title that my future father-in-law holds—with Viscount Amherst. Unlike her mention of Baron Tresler or my decent (but still disappointing in her eyes) impending marriage, I wholly understand her umbrage with Viscount Amherst.

It would seem that, despite Mother bringing me home to presumably be imminently married, that it is not the case. Viscount Amherst has apparently agreed to the wedding on the condition that I must be sixteen before I can marry his son. So I will have to wait. It is another stone in my belly. The idea of being married makes me nervous; what girl isn't at the prospect of marrying a complete stranger? At least he is only seven years older than I am; still young and handsome. That, at least, I am pleased about. I remember meeting Josef Amherst at one of the Meyer's dinner parties. He is indeed quite handsome—tall with russet hair and smiling blue eyes, well built thanks to his love of sporting—and I distinctly remember wondering at the time what it would be like to marry a young man like him, dashing and handsome as he is. One of the girls Yolande is friends with is promised to marry a man twice her age and, Yolande told me with almost a scandalized air, has a daughter himself nearly the same age as his new betrothed. I couldn't imagine that.

But it is not exactly the idea of marriage, or of my marriage being delayed, that puts these knots in my stomach. It is the prospect of spending the next two years in my Mother's company...

I wisely keep that thought to myself, barely daring to think it. Mother would only lecture me more on my own ignorance and certainly my ingratitude. She has already forgotten me, though, and apparently couldn't read my mutinous thoughts on my face. This cheers me a little; I have been practicing at schooling my face to show precisely what I choose. Meek indifference is my best one, just now, as that is the one my Mother takes least issue with; it took me a good many hours in front of my mirror to get that one just right.

"Baron Tresler has no pride, and little honour," she says firmly, "he should never have asked for help—not that your father should have given in, mind you—but accepted that he was responsible for ruining his family and accepted the consequences of his incompetence. Instead, he swindles your father out of his good money, fixing his own Estate at the cost of our own. Then, after causing our ruin in conspiracy with your father, he doesn't deign to help us, even though it is largely his fault that brought about our hardship. If it were not for my husband's generosity, we would be living in far more desperate straits than the destitution we suffer now.

Destitution, she says? My eyes flick over her sitting room. It is not so nice, in my admittedly biased opinion, as her sitting room in our old Manor, but it is in no way squalid as I swear she would have me believe. It is handsomely appointed, with rosy pink trimmings accented by subtle traces of gold, and warm gray and mahogany furniture that is just as dignified as anything Lord Meyer had in his Manor house. There are even brand new gas lamps that light the room, throwing back the darkness that is growing outside as the evening wears on. Again, I keep my observations to myself. It would only do to irritate her further were I to even hint at disagreeing with her.

A sudden change comes over her as the patter of young feet come down the hall to her siting room. With a pleased sigh, she opens her arms to greet little Herbert as he comes in with his nurse for his goodnight from Mother.

Mother has no qualms about showcasing that she much prefers my five year-old half-brother, praising him every opportunity she gets. She was always a hard, demanding mother as I grew, constantly requiring more with little offer of reward beyond easing her criticisms for a short time; I don't ever remember her throwing her arms open for me, or kissing me as she does with her precious little Herbert. Only Papa did that with me.

I remember him settling me on his lap once, and telling me about a ball of the old King's that he had attended while he was away at Court. He'd given me a music box that day, and it had played softly in my lap as he spoke, its sweet tinkling music a waltz that Papa said was a favourite among the Court, one that he had composed himself; he had made his name at court for his musical compositions; that waltz is easily my favourite, and he often said it was mine and his. I had been utterly captivated by his words, his descriptions of the rich paintings and huge columns, of the walls of glass that the windows appeared to be and of the swirling riot of colour that the dancers created as they whirled and spun across the gleaming marble floors. I could imagine it all, every last detail, set to the music that drifted from my newest treasure. He promised he would take me to my first Royal Ball when I was old enough.

I hold in a sigh as that particular thought crosses my mind. He died before he could take me to any sort of ball. He had insisted that he would lead me down the great staircase, dressed in a lovely gown of red silk, and everyone would envy me, his pretty daughter, and he'd be the proudest father in the Kingdom. I had loved that idea, that dream, so much that I had made him swear it would be so. And he promised me without a scrap of hesitation or insincerity.

But then he broke that promise; he died.

A sad sigh manages to escape my lips, noticeable enough that my Mother shoots me scolding glance over my little brother's curly-haired head. I bite the inside of my cheek, holding in any further reaction thinking on my Papa's broken promise brings. She is right, though, putting my trust in Papa's promise had been a childish mistake. It only led to the crushed feeling in my heart that I still fight to forget even eight years later.

Standing, I discretely straighten my blue skirts before dropping in a small curtsy before my Mother.

"Forgive me, Mother, but I am tired. If you will permit me, I will ready myself for bed as well," I say quietly, knowing she will only let me leave her presence with her permission, no matter how I would dearly love to simply walk out without a word to her; that's all she would do to me. She looks me up and down for a moment with her critical eyes. I stand perfectly still, willing myself not to quail under her hard gaze. I should be used to this by now, but I am ashamed to say I am not. After a long moment, she apparently finds nothing out of place enough for her to criticize and she gives me a disinterested nod of consent, waving me off with a lazy flick of her wrist, as though she were shooing a fly.

Turning, I walk sedately out of the sitting room, knowing better than to betray how relieved I am to be leaving her presence. Once I am out of sight and hearing, I allow my ramrod straight back to relax. I was not entirely overstating myself when I made my excuse of being tired. Spending all day under my Mother's eye and her thumb is exhausting.

As I eagerly make my way toward my bedchamber, I fight back the thought that this is one more day trapped with my Mother that is over, and one day closer to my wedding. It is a cheering prospect. When I finally enter my room, I pause by my vanity, hesitating for a moment before opening and winding my Papa's music box. Just as prettily as ever, the strains of our waltz seem to float around me. I even allow myself to dance a little as I change out of my dress and into my nightclothes. As music trails off while I am braiding my long hair for sleep, I allow myself to smile a little at the thought of being free.


	2. .II.

That two years could pass so slowly had not come as a surprise to me. I had known, the instant Mother had told me my wedding would not take place until after my sixteenth birthday, that those next two years would quite likely be the longest of my life.

But now that this fateful day is here? I have to wonder where those two years went. It takes every bit of self-control I have to keep myself calm, to keep from trembling where I stand. Around me, the seamstress and my Mother's lady's maid—she says I may have one when I am the mistress of my own home, that there is no need for me to have one in her home where Alexis, her maid, can help if I truly need it—are finishing with the last few adjustments to my gown.

My wedding gown; it is pale green and cream silk, cut close to my figure with wide, luxurious skirts, with lavender and green trimmings on the bodice, sleeves and hems. Two weeks before my birthday, the seamstress appeared in my room and before I knew it, I was up on a stool getting measured. A half-hour later, my Mother appeared and the seamstress started pulling out swatches and ribbons and before the morning was out, Mother had decided exactly what I was to wear for my wedding. I was left standing on the stool.

Nothing about my wedding was decided on by me. Not the menu, not the guests, not my gown. Mother planned everything. I didn't even bother to try, not that I realized she was in the midst of planning my wedding until Alexis answered my whispered question about what the measurements were for. At first I was entirely distraught about being shut out of the planning of my own wedding, especially the gown. My clothes are one of the few things that Mother allows me some autonomy over, especially as she has realized over the last two years that I have developed a knack for appearing fashionable no matter what I have to work with and even predicting some of the newest fashions. Yet, as much as I would have liked to have had a say in my gown, I cannot am entirely upset about it in this instance, given that the gown Mother and the seamstress came up with is quite possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever worn.

"There," Alexis says with her faint, provincial lilt, sending a small smile up at me, "you're all ready, and you look stunning." I give her a small smile back. I have always liked Alexis. She has always been my ally of sorts, distracting Mother when I was getting a particularly bad tongue-lashing, helping me do my hair in the mornings while telling me all the news that I would never have heard otherwise, sneaking me treats when I was little and Mother had forbidden me sweets for some inane crime. With an eager gesture, she motions for me to turn around. Eager myself, but doing a better job of holding it in, I turn on the stool I've been set upon, my hand in Alexis' for balance as I cannot see my feet or even the stool for the width of my skirts.

She is right; I am stunning. I don't even have to tell my back to straighten or my chin to lift as I look on at myself in the mirror. I look exquisite and nearly regal. The cream-coloured lace sleeves cling to my arms, enriched beautifully with exquisitely embroidered accents in the same lavender and pale green as the rest of the gown. The ribbon and embroidery-embellished neckline, while not too low (else Mother would likely have a stroke) does bare most of my shoulders and my collarbone. The bodice fits close to my torso, further emphasizing my figure without overtly displaying my newly generous bust. The skirts flare out from my slim waist, made smaller with the corsets I'm still becoming accustomed to, falling in elegant sweeps and folds down to the floor, where I can tell a short train appropriate to my rank and age will follow me as I walk. I'm honestly not even sure what colour my shoes are since the skirts are voluminous enough that I imagine I will have little hope of seeing my feet without a great deal of effort. I have been worried that the shades of pale green and cream would wash out my already pale skin, but as I look at myself, I am pleased that, though gentle colours, they are rich enough that instead of leaching colour from my skin, they enhance the faint blushing in my cheeks and the pinks of my lips. I don't have a scrap of jewellery on, as tradition dictates it would be inappropriate in a non-royal wedding, especially given that I am a first-time bride. I don't even have jewels in my ears or a bracelet on my wrist, but I find I don't mind; the rich trimmings and embroidered details decorating my dress more than make up for it. My hair is left mostly loose, as befits a young bride, to cascade in dark waves and curls down my back while some is wound, woven and braided over my ears and around the crown of my head, where a few white and lavender sprays of tiny flowers are arranged so that I have a floral halo framing my face.

Behind me, I hear the sound of the door opening, and without taking my eyes from my reflection the mirror before me, I know that it is Mother come to inspect me before my debut. There is no mistaking the purposeful clacking of her heels across the polished floor of the wardrobe.

It takes a bit of effort to keep my spine from habitually bending meekly under her scrutiny, but I am so pleased with my appearance that it grants me some strength to stand up to her inevitable criticisms. Boldly, bolstered as I am by knowing I look perfect, I turn my face to hers, letting my dark eyes meet her sharp ones without a trace of the timidity she usually expects from me. In the last year I have finally grown taller, and I am almost as tall as Mother, now. Standing on the stool as I am, I tower over her, feeling like a queen looking down on her subjects. Stranger still, I see little trace of disapproval in her expression as she surveys my appearance much as I had a mere moment before. It is almost enough to make me grin triumphantly. I hold it in, though. No need to break the mood with her scolding.

Once, when I was still small, I thought my Mother must have been the greatest lady in all the land, save the Queen, and even that was debatable. As I grew older, it was a harsh—yet strangely satisfying—lesson to learn that she was barely notable among the other noble-born ladies of the land, no matter that she behaved like she was greater than all of them. She deserved to be elevated above them all, so far as she was concerned, and so that was how she presented herself to the world.

Standing here on my stool, looking down at my Mother as she looks up at me with the closest thing to approval I have ever seen, it hits me. She may not have be the great lady she believes herself to be, but I could be.

Then the moment is over. Nearly shaking her head to dispel what ever she had been thinking, Mother clucks, gesturing sharply at Alexis before taking a few steps back from me, giving me room to descend from the stool. In a blink, Alexis is at my side, taking my hand to steady me as I step cautiously from my perch, the seamstress bustling around my hem to ensure I don't step on it.

As soon as my feet touch the floor, Mother begins on the flurry of instruction she no doubt had planned before she even set out to come to the wardrobe to check on my progress. As soon as she starts talking, Alexis and the seamstress throw the gossamer sheer veil, trimmed with the same embroidery as my gown, over my head. With that action and my Mother's persistent admonishments that everything must go perfectly, the apprehension that had been growing in my belly as today drew closer returns with a vengeance.

Out in the hall, I can hear another, heavier set of footsteps approaching. It must be nearly time, I think, as I recognize the tread belonging to my Stepfather. I withhold a sigh of disappointment at that thought. With my Papa long dead, and my little brother nearly too young to attend the wedding, it has fallen to Captain Steffan to give me away. Mother had briefly debated sending me down the aisle on my own, given that I am technically a Baroness in my own right and have no appropriately aged male relatives. But then Captain Steffan had pointed out that, as Mother is technically my guardian and she is his wife, he is my guardian as well, and thus the most appropriate one to give me away. I may be young and naïve as Mother puts it, but even I can see through this; Mother may have avoided doing so, but Lady Meyer taught me to observe those around me carefully and to think critically and even politically while under her care. It's a declaration of power to him. He is stating that I am under his control. Not for the first time, as he explained to Mother that he'd give me away, I am reminded that, if he could, my title would be his. My money would also be his were he to have his way, no doubt, even though it's only a small fortune.

Without even a courteous knock, he lets himself in. If it was hard to keep from flinching under Mother's gaze, it is nearly impossible not to under his. There has always been something about Captain Steffan that bothered me, especially how he looks at me. At first, it was as though I was an inconvenience. Then, once he realized that, even married to my Mother, he had no control or access to my title or my inheritance, he began looking at me as though I was a thief. Now, in these last two years he has looked at me in those same ways, as a thief and an annoyance, but there's something else too. Something that I cannot place, that I do not want to understand. It makes me feel small and soiled. As usual, my skin crawls as he enters the wardrobe and without even meaning to, the unconcerned mask I have taught myself to wear slips over my features, hiding my distress from him and Mother both. I turn back to the mirror, determined to keep my composure. I catch a glimpse of myself again.

Even with my face paled from anxiety and discomfort, I am still beautiful. No, it's more than that, I notice with a start. With my face set into a cool, indifferent mask, I look untouchable. The rosy flush that was on my cheeks before my Mother and Stepfather chased it from me lent me a youthful prettiness. Without it, I look almost unearthly, striking and majestic. I look older than a sixteen year-old girl; I look like a young woman beyond the care of petty things. I look like a titled noblewoman. And I am, I realize. I am the Baroness Tabitha Morend, soon to be Baroness Tabitha Morend-Amherst and one day at least a Viscountess. I shall soon out-rank my Mother—arguably I already do—and will certainly outrank her husband. From this day on, they will have no power over me. The corner of my lip quirks up slightly. It is a secret, powerful smile and one that I haven't seen on my face before. It's an expression I like. I shall have to practice later to perfect it until I can wear it at will.

Turning, ignoring the fluttering in my stomach as I realize I am about to be led to church, I hold out my hand, waiting for my Stepfather to take it. My Mother's lips purse disapprovingly. Strictly speaking, I should have waited for him to offer his own hand, but I am fresh on the heels of my epiphany. I find I don't care. His nose wrinkling a little in an expression I feel he has emulated from my Mother, he takes my hand and leads me out and on to the chapel behind my Mother and Alexis.

Because Captain Steffan's own property is barely worth noting, we live on my Mother's childhood Estate, her own inheritance from her father. It is still modest, and apparently smaller than my future home, but it still has a respectable Manor and its own chapel on the grounds. Respectable enough that Alexis says Viscount Amherst was easily willing to concede to Mother's demands that the Wedding take place here, in her own home. It was something Alexis said Mother wasn't entirely pleased about. We both think she had been spoiling for a disagreement where she could exercise a measure of her skills at manipulation and bend Viscount Amherst to her will. I wonder now if my future father-in-law saw through her power play and trumped it with his own in agreeing so graciously.

As I walk with Captain Steffan through the familiar halls toward the Chapel, the confidence my epiphany engendered in me slowly fades as my apprehension returns. It is a battle to keep my shoulders from tensing in anxiety and my back straight as though I have not a care in the world.

The Great Hall is decorated festively with flowers, ribbons, intricately looped bows, hundreds of crystal enhanced candles and brightly coloured draping fabric. It is already prepared and laid out for the grand dinner that is to follow the ceremony itself, a few servants bustling about seeing to last minute adjustments. Additionally, the walkway from the front door of the Manor to the door of the Chapel is lined with garlands to guide the wedding guests back onto the Manor for the reception and Dinner afterward. I do my best to notice, only to fail miserably. I cannot quite bring myself to care just yet. As each step takes me closer to the Chapel, I try holding tighter to my knowledge that I am but a few vows away from being free of my Mother.

But as the double doors loom ahead of me, festooned with flowers and ribbon bows, my nervousness drowns even that comforting thought away. With one last stern glance at me and an admonishing reminder to not disgrace myself, Mother turns on her heel and enters the chapel. I barely hear her. I am putting my last bit of focus into fighting back my nerves and keeping the soft, pleased smile I have schooled myself to present just for this occasion on my face.

The wedding itself is a blur. I am collected as I walk down the aisle, staying that way by concentrating on keeping my steps slow and measured. I barely realize that I have reached the altar, and nearly jump out of my skin when Josef Amherst takes my hand from my Stepfather's. It is only thanks to my Mother's deeply ingrained lessons that keep me still and poised at his side, my slim hand almost lost in his larger gloved one. I am suddenly glad that he is wearing his pair of handsome blue gloves; it would be humiliating for him to know just how nervous I am from the way my hands have gone damp and clammy. I am so caught up in keeping myself from trembling and thinking on how thankful I am for his gloves that I have barely noticed the ceremony beginning around me.

Suddenly the weight of his ring is on my finger. A flutter of panic lights in my chest. I'm married already? I barely remember saying the words. Did I say them right? Did I stumble over them like Mother scolded me not to?

I hazard a quick glance at my Mother. She looks begrudgingly pleased. I hold in a sigh of relief. If I had made a mistake her thin lips would be pursed tight, her cheeks flushed and, if she were really angry or upset, her face would be nearly white and stony as an ancient bust, and her eyes would be as steely and sharp as her best needles.

She isn't smiling, but she looks satisfied. I must have done an acceptable job.

Beside me, the priest delivers the final benediction and announces that I am now My Lady Baroness Tabitha Morend-Amherst. My hand still in his, my new husband turns me and begins leading my back down the aisle, heading for the Great Hall where we will begin the feast my Mother has no doubt planned down to the last detail.

Though my nerves have yet to settle, I find that, as Josef leads me back into Warin Manor, my head feels clearer than it did on my way down to the chapel. His hand is firm under mine, and his steps are confident but measured, accounting for my shorter stride and heavy skirts. He does not look at me, though, I realize as I glance at him. All the way back up the aisle, he looks to the guests, nodding and smiling, giving a word of thanks every now and then. Even when we step outside and the household servants and tenants from the Estate cheer and toss flower petals over our heads for luck he doesn't even glance over to look at me.

By the time we make it to the front doors, thrown open wide for us to walk in side-by-side, I am much calmer than I was before the ceremony. The cheering and friendly well-wishes have brought a real smile back to my face and colour to my cheeks again, no matter my initial resolve to keep my reactions firmly in check to satisfy Mother's demand for dignity. The regular people of the Estate are all far more excited than I am. Men and women alike comment on how lovely I am and how lucky my new husband is to have found such a beautiful bride.

He still hasn't looked at me.

A shot of anxiety ripples through me again. Have I done something to displease him already? Could it be that he does not find me so beautiful as everyone says? As I know I am? I have heard that the perception of beauty is subjective, but I always thought that there was some beauty that couldn't help but be universally acknowledged.

Even if there is something wrong with me in his eyes, surely he should still have reason to look at me, to meet my gaze. After all, we are married now.

As we walk up to the high table placed on a dais at the far end of the Great Hall, I can hear our guests beginning to file in behind us, gathering inside the door between the arms of the tables set around the perimeter of the room, for us, the newlyweds, to take our seats and signal our celebration to begin. The Hall echoes with cheerful chatter as Josef leads me up onto the dais and around the table to our seats.

As I had recalled when I was first told that Josef Amherst was to be my husband, one of the things I had noticed about him the first time I met him was that his manners were impeccable. Now, as he guides me to my seat in the centre of the high table, I am reminded of that fact. He pulls my chair out the precise distance from the table necessary to accommodate my gown, but not so far that I will have to shuffle forward with it to reach the table, no matter that there are footmen nearby to do such things for us, and gives me his steady hand to help me balance as I navigate my skirts into place.

It is then that he meets my eyes, as I am sliding in between the table and my chair. His eyes, though bright with the high spirits prompted by the cheering common-folk, are resigned. There is no doubting what that means. He is about as enthusiastic about marrying me as I am him...and that is almost not at all. Once again, I have to take conscious charge of my features to prevent my face from falling, though I don't entirely succeed. A flicker of apology ghosts over his face. My heart sinks. While I was not anticipating being excited about this arrangement, I was hoping that I could learn to be, and that a measure of enthusiasm from my new husband would help me with that endeavour. With my realization about out-ranking my mother and the cheerful calls still wafting into the Hall from outside, I had begun thinking that maybe I could be happy about this marriage, even a little. I just needed my new husband to be a little keen as well. Only now I know he is not. The anxiety in my belly reasserts itself again.

He takes his place next to me, taking my hand and raising it in welcome with his and invites our guests to join us for dinner in a crisp, clear voice.

Then, together, we sit down for our first meal as husband and wife.


	3. .III.

I am free. Free of my mother. Free of her tyranny. And I have been for over four whole years, now.

And it has been a pleasant four years simply because she isn't ruling my every waking moment, my every waking thought, my every reaction, my every feeling. It is a freedom I have craved ever since I was a girl, even after I left home for the Meyer Estate. There I had her agent, my governess Miss Bonner, parroting every single sort of criticism and instruction Mother would have lain upon me. Then I was home again and back under Mother's immediate control.

Now I'm not. She's not here.

I suppose being married isn't precisely being free, but here in my house, I feel lighter without my Mother's oppressive presence. Sure, I get letters, long and as intensive as a book with instruction and reminder and criticism. But unlike when she is in my presence, where I cannot escape her cutting tongue and critical eyes, here in my house, I am free to ignore her instructions. And, unlike when I was under Miss Bonner's supervision, I don't even have to read her missives if I don't wish it. I need not give her a say in how I run my house. I smile at the thought.

My house.

Mine.

Really, it is Josef's, but it feels like mine. It is a modest manor—twelve bedrooms, a great hall that also serves as the formal dining room when the occasion calls, two sitting rooms, two drawing rooms and a parlour, nine fireplaces, a decent library; its almost a mansion, really—but it is mine to direct as I please. I'm sure the staff initially thought I was overbearing and demanding, but I could care less, then as I still do now. I am in control here. They learned quickly enough, and once they understood what I intended, many of them rather rose to the occasion. I do believe I learned rather quickly myself, for I am not too proud to admit that there was much I didn't actually know about running my own household when I first arrived here. But the Steward, Mr. Hummel, has proven himself most helpful, and though he was perhaps a little put off by my constant hovering and questions at first, and a little put off now at the level of control I insist upon holding myself instead of leaving to him, he is still a great deal more instructive than my Mother or her Steward ever were.

But I truly do love being the Mistress of my own house! That aspect alone is enough to let me enjoy being married.

The other aspect, actually being married, I like less so. Oh, Josef is a decent enough husband, but I feel like I really mean very little to him. I am a duty, a vessel for him to get heirs on and someone to look to his home so he does not have to. I'm little more than a steward to him who must also bear him children. We really have very little to do with each other save at some meals, when we have guests and when we must attend to our marital duties. Mother keeps chiding me for not having borne my husband his heir yet, but that particular duty seems to be more of a chore than anything else for both of us.

As I had anticipated, the wedding night was the worst part of that day. I was already dreading it, and I am begrudgingly certain that that fact didn't help in the least. Thankfully, my Mother-in-law thought to ask me if I knew what had to happen in my marriage bed. Truthfully, I didn't, not really, and luckily, I think, she saw that in my face.

Mother had told me only that I wouldn't like it, but that I must do as my husband demanded and that I would have to endure it like all wives must. She said nothing else on the matter. It fell to Lady Amherst to fill me in on what was actually expected of me.

It wasn't as bad as Mother had implied, but it was not pleasant, regardless. And it really has not improved much in the handful of years since. My mother-in-law had hinted that it would become more bearable, possibly even enjoyable, as Josef and I grew to know each other, but I suspect that without the emotional bond most married couples seem to develop, my own husband and I are unlikely to experience that.

I had few hopes going into this, Mother made sure of that. I know that love like you hear about in stories is rare, if not an outright myth, so I had no illusions that I would find a love like that with Josef. But I had hoped at least that by now there would be a little tenderness between my husband and me; a little affection that marks our relationship as different than that of mere acquaintance.

It is disappointing.

It is disheartening.

The part that hurts me most is that I think I may be developing feelings for him regardless of his apathy. My heart sometimes beats a little faster when I see him and there are times when I can't help but smile when he looks at me.

Is it possible to have an unrequited affection for one's husband? I don't know, but sometimes it feels that way. I try not to think on it too much.

Instead I look to my house and my duties. I take care of guests when we have them; a frequent occurrence, especially in summer and autumn as my husband and most of his closest acquaintances are avid sportsmen. I have grown quite proud of the fact that my skills as a hostess have developed to the point where we are beginning to host visitors who come for my reputation, rather than the reputation of Josef as the consummate sportsman and carefree courtier, or our Manor as a prime hunting retreat. That has to be enough to give me pleasure. And I will own that it does give me pleasure. I am immensely pleased that I have carved out a humble but quickly growing place for myself in the social hierarchy of our Kingdom. I am a rising star. I am easily the most popular lady in the county, and am quickly growing to be one of the most popular ladies in our little corner of the Kingdom, and possibly the whole of it. The simple constraint of space at our Manor that limited how many guests I could host has given way to the perception that my events and parties are exclusive, and a place on my guest-list is becoming a coveted privilege. There are few whom I would prefer not to have visit; Mother, of course, and her unpleasant husband...

...and Richard.

I don't know how I would handle Richard being a guest. I have not seen him since leaving the Meyer Estate, and certainly not since my marriage. Mother made absolutely certain that the Treslers were not at my wedding, to the point where I have heard rumours circulating that a veritable feud has developed between my Mother and Baron and Lady Tresler. And given the developments since my wedding, that is certainly not a good thing for my Mother's ambition.

Barely a year into my own marriage, our Kingdom was rocked by the news that our King had his eye caught by one Lady Yolande Tresler, and within months had married my old companion. Much of the Court was delighted; in this King's Court they love a good romance, it seems, and the King's courtship and marriage has since been likened to something out of a fairy story. Needless to say, the Treslers have since found themselves rising very high indeed, much to my Mother's chagrin.

If part of me wasn't so unhappy and upset by the news, I would be laughing for the sheer irony of it! Mother refused to marry me to Richard because his family was too low, in her esteem, with little ambition and fewer real prospects. Now, with his sister Yolande married to the young King, Richard is our monarch's brother-in-law and has apparently become rather a close friend and confidant to King Aldric. I can't say such a thing really surprises me in the least. Richard has always been companionable and charming and has always had a great ease in making and keeping friends with what always seemed to me very little effort; I have always had a much harder time of it, and find it takes a great deal of work and effort to affect the same easy-going charm and charisma that Richard has always had naturally. So no, it does not surprise me in the slightest that the King was drawn to him as a friend. Word is that he is likely to be made a Count, in honour of his rumoured position as the newborn Prince's Godfather and Uncle. He could possibly even become a Duke one day.

I imagine mother is fuming; that thought alone gave me pleasure when I heard the news.

It allowed me to smile and offer up words of congratulations and well wishes in honour of the royal couple when in company. It makes it fractionally easier to pretend that a little part of me wasn't crushed upon realizing that, had I been permitted to marry Richard, both Mother's ambition and my happiness might very well have been achieved.

I try not to dwell on that.

But it is hard not to, especially in these early March morning minutes when I am working to convince myself that I need to get out of my lovely warm bed with it's rose-coloured down comforter and start on my tasks and duties of the day. Especially given that I know the instant I sit up, not only will the air be unbearably chilled despite the healthy fire my maid has built up, but my head will spin and my stomach will twist and lurch as though I was bouncing along in a farmer's wagon. But get up I must, and so I pull myself from my covers, thinking I have sufficiently prepared myself for the challenge my stomach is likely to offer.

I haven't.

Even as my body rebels against keeping the contents of my stomach where they are meant to be, I am steadfast in my purpose to begin my day, no matter that sleeping for another hour or two sounds—and feels—infinitely more preferable. It is an old argument. For nearly two weeks now I have woken to the same battle against my equilibrium in my effort to begin my day.

I don't let a troubled stomach keep me from getting out of bed. It is a long borne habit. I had to be truly sick for Mother to believe that I was not feigning illness. Colds were nothing, to her mind, but a lack of will power—I have endeavoured my whole life under Mother's instruction to teach myself not to sniffle too much when plagued with a head cold—and headaches are to be endured. It was impossible to convince my Mother I was truly suffering from a headache, even when I was wavering on my feet and almost unable to walk.

It was only if I was unable to move, with a dangerously high fever or spots or some other serious—and visible—malady that Mother would grant that perhaps bed rest was warranted, and only then when a physician had confirmed that I was indeed ill.

Even at the Meyer's, I was not beyond the reach of Mother's opinions, my governess holding me to my Mother's beliefs for her. Neither of them wanted me to get lazy, Bonner said, and license to lie down or fail to rise at all for a trifling discomfort, as she put it, was the height of poor character. The Meyers and the Treslers were far more compassionate, Lady Meyer shrilly ordering my governess to take me back to bed when I presented myself to her parlour white as a ghost and visibly dizzy from the strength of a particularly bad headache.

That didn't stop Bonner from lecturing me on my laziness as she grudgingly put me back to bed.

So no, a slightly upset stomach is of little consequence to me anymore.

Especially as I suspect it is a sign that I have been long awaiting over the course of my four years of marriage. I have a local midwife of good repute due to visit me this afternoon to confirm my suspicions. It will be a relief of sorts if I am proven correct and I am indeed pregnant...at least then I will have a respite from Mother's constant harassment about why I have not given my husband an heir yet.

I've never really thought much on the prospect of becoming a mother. Oh, I knew it would eventually happen; "it is a wife and a woman's duty, no matter how distasteful" as Mother has often repeated. I suppose if I truly had a choice, I might have abstained from the responsibility. There seemed little appeal to the idea. It was always something to me that just had to be done. And with my own Mother in as my shining example of motherhood? It has not made me particularly keen for the experience. Even with Lady Meyer and Lady Amherst to provide me with a somewhat more balanced example of motherhood, I was still not particularly anxious to take up my duty and bear children.

But now? As I realize that this procreative eventuality may actually have happened? Now that I've had a chance to actually come to terms with the fact that I am quite possibly going to be a mother? A warm feeling lights in my chest at the thought of holding my own baby, my own little child. I find I am growing rather excited by the prospect, or at least, notably less anxious about it than I was before I began to suspect a pregnancy. Oh it is not certain yet, I have yet to have my condition confirmed, so I try not to get my hopes up, which is an odd concept in and of itself.

One thing is certain and that is that I have no intention of being to my theoretical children what my Mother was, is, to me: a tyrant, a tormentor. I will model my behaviour as a mother on that of Lady Meyer: firm, demanding, but fair in a way my Mother has never been. A balance of disciplinarian and teacher.

But I will not become my Mother in this.

I will not become my Mother in any aspect.

"I swear it," I promise to the tiny life I am hoping is growing in my belly, not even realizing at first that the thought had escaped the confines of my mind until I hear my own whispering voice.

My musing is interrupted when my lady's maid, Gina, comes in with my breakfast. Holding back a sigh, I go to stand, only to have a wave of dizziness overtake me. As I close my eyes, trying to order the wave of nausea away, I feel Gina at my side, her hand tentative against my shoulder. Peaking over at her out of the corner of my eye, I shoot her a faint look of aggravation, and she responds back with a knowing glance of her own. I can't help but sigh. I know she means well, but I am so used to taking care of myself that having her jumping to help me when I don't think I need it is a little bit aggravating, especially when she insists she has my best interests at heart.

I didn't expect to take to Gina as well as I did, and I certainly wasn't expecting her to take to me so quickly. But she's become quite protective of me in the last couple years, something I am quietly grateful for; it wouldn't be appropriate to be overly demonstrative, especially as she is my servant. But I have found that, for being as popular as I have become, I am admittedly lonely. I wasn't raised to have friends. I had Richard, and I suspect that was more his doing than mine.

It does not take long to dress and ready myself, though a brief struggle with the buttons on my bodice means that it takes longer than usual—it's something that both annoys and amuses me.

My morning tasks are dull, but necessary. I go over menus for the week, talk to my steward and housekeeper about any anticipated guests—none this week, so far—and oversee some of the daily household chores just to satisfy my personal resolve on making sure my household is being run properly. Before I know it, my morning has whiled away and it is nearly time for luncheon. I am already growing tired, but I push the feeling back. The day is barely half over.

Walking into the dining room, I am faintly surprised to see Josef already sitting at the table, lounging in his chair with his long legs out before him crossed at the ankles, reading his paper while he waits for me to join him. It is a change of pace. Usually, I am the one waiting for him to appear, so seeing him waiting for me is different.

"Husband," I greet him. He peers over his paper at me as he turns the page, the corner of his mouth tilting up as he returns my greeting: "Tabitha." As I head for my seat, he straightens in his chair, folding his paper and setting it aside. Without needing any sort of gesture or instruction, the footmen begin bringing in our meal. I smile to myself with satisfaction at the efficiency I have insisted on.

Just then, as Josef and I are sitting down to our luncheon, a footman comes hurrying in, a letter held before him as he marches straight for my husband. That fact alone is enough to cause me to frown with concern. It must be truly urgent, for in running my household I have been diligent to ensure that it is run in a respectable and fashionable manner. Convention dictates that the boy should have borne the letter to his Master on one of the letter trays that I procured on the advice of my Mother-in-law, Lady Amherst. Our little Manor may be nearly a backwater place, but thanks to my direction, it is run to higher standards than any old country house.

Josef's Manor, or really his father's secondary house in the northeast part of the kingdom, had come to be little more than a hunting manor. Lady Amherst told me on one of her visits that traditionally the Viscount's heir would set up and keep his household in the smaller Manor as his personal residence as a prelude to one day inheriting the entirely of the Amherst Estates. But, she had told me, in the last few generations the practice had lapsed, as the smaller property was farther away from heart of the Kingdom, and most heirs had a desire and sometimes a necessity to be near the King's Court. As such, the Manor itself had been all but relegated to that of a hunting residence, that is, until Josef decided to take it up as his own residence. I imagine its status as his family's Hunting Manor had more to do with that decision than any desire on his part to revive old traditions.

That the young footman didn't take the time to do things properly irritates me, but studying the look on his face causes me to pause.

Looking neither eager nor enthusiastic in his anxiousness, the boy nearly thrusts the letter into Josef's hand. For a brief moment, he looks as though he'd like nothing better than to run off. A pointed glance from me keeps him standing discreetly several steps behind my husband's chair as he has been instructed, reassuring me that he has not intentionally forgotten his duties. It seems only incidental that Josef makes a small gesture for the boy to stay as well.

As he opens the letter carefully, it is only Josef's furrowed brow that shows he is suddenly worried by what it contains. My husband may not be quite so preoccupied as I am with what is proper and what is fashionable in running a household, but he is aware of how things should be done; it is one thing I am pleased Lady Amherst managed to impress upon her son; he certainly is a well-bred and properly mannered nobleman. He is not dull, nor stupid, nor oblivious as many young men of his rank and position that I've encountered are. That is, admittedly, something that does give me a measure of comfort in this arrangement. He knows something is off by the way the footman is behaving, just as I do.

The way his face pales as he reads the letter confirms my suspicion that it is indeed urgent, and unpleasant, news. But he is silent. My hand creeps to my belly, but I force it back to the table, momentarily surprised by the impulse. I watch as his eyes dart back and forth over the letter a second and third time before his blue gaze stills, staring blankly at the page. I judge that it isn't a long letter, but it is distressing.

I shift forward slightly in my seat, laying my hand on the table near his. I don't presume to take it.

"My Lord husband?" I probe tentatively, "it is ill news?" I say it as a question, but it is obvious to all it is bad news that he has received. Josef starts, as though he had forgotten I was there. He blinks heavily, getting his thoughts in order before answering me.

"Yes," he clears his throat when his first attempt comes out too quiet, "yes, it is ill news indeed. My father has died; a stroke, Mother believes. It would seem that I am now to be Viscount Amherst." I am stunned by the news—Viscount Amherst, sorry, the Late Viscount seemed such a healthy and vigorous man for his age—but I manage to withhold the extent of my surprise. I can feel my eyes widen before I can stop them, but I manage to keep my jaw from gaping open like a fish. Josef says it with almost no inflection at all. I can barely tell how it is he feels by his voice. There is a strain of sadness there, but no hint of gratification that the title is now his. It surprises me a little; I have become used to the idea that Noblemen's sons inherently covet their fathers' titles. Lord knows, enough of Josef's companions are thus.

On an impulse, I reach my fingers forward, taking my husband's hand. I can sympathize a little, at least, with his pain; though it has been a great many years now, I still miss my own Papa, and I get the impression from the grief-stricken look in my husband's eyes that he cared for his father much as I cared for mine. After a moment, his fingers curl around mine.

"I am sorry, Josef," I offer simply. He looks up and, even through his grief, I feel like he is actually seeing me for the first time since we entered into this arrangement. His eyes are wide as he looks at me, his bloodless face making them look starkly vivid. After a moment he clears his throat, his gaze dropping from mine back down to the letter he still has clutched in his fingers. His knuckles are nearly white.

"The funeral is to be held in three days time. We should just—if we leave in the morning we will be there in time. It will also give us time to begin organizing ourselves to move. The Viscount's Manor is mine now along with my Fath—my Father's title; it is only appropriate that I take up residence there." He stammers at mention of his inheritance, unable to process the reality just yet that it is his because his Father is dead. I lift my chin by a fraction. He will come to terms with this change in circumstance soon enough. Until then, I decide that I will take charge.

"Of course, husband," I respond softy, making sure to keep my voice low and soothing, "I will see to the arrangements." A twinge of pain on his behalf vibrates in my chest. I may not love him, but it does affect me to see him like this. His fingers tighten for a moment on mine before he pulls away. Taking a steadying breath he stands, setting his napkin aside with a deliberate air. We'd barely been able to eat more than a few bites or our meal, but he has evidently lost his appetite. Drawing away from the table, Josef gets to his feet and makes for the doorway, looking to me as though he is fleeing the news even though the letter is still gripped tightly in his hand.

"Excuse me," he says, remembering his manners just before he exits the room, "I find I have letters I must write before the day is out." With a short, distracted nod in my direction, he turns on his heel and strides out into the hallway.

I sit at the table, alone but for the footmen standing by the door acting as though they aren't there, for the longest time, running what just happened over and over again in my mind. I am a Viscountess, now, I realize belatedly. The act of fate that took my husband's father from him has made me a Viscountess. Though the thought of my husband's pain is sobering, I fight the small grin that tries to appear on my face. It wouldn't do for the servants to catch sight of and gossip over any apparent pleasure on my part at my husband's sorrow. I had not thought to gain such a title for many years yet. Mother would be pleased. She was forever ranting in her letters to me that I had not accumulated enough influence to suit her yet, no matter my entreaties that there was only so much I could do in my current position. But this? Gaining a new title would surely grant me some reprieve from her denigrations...at least on the front of influence.

Gathering my thoughts from where they are beginning to stray, I stand, discreetly steadying myself against the table as a faint wave of dizziness makes a brief appearance before making my way to see Mr. and Mrs. Hummel, the Steward and the Housekeeper. There is a great deal to be done, and not a lot of time in which to do it.


	4. .IV.

It would seem that my life has a habit of changing in an instant. First with my Papa's death, then meeting Richard at his funeral; being recalled home from the Meyer's; now, the death of my father-in-law.

That letter changed everything. Within days we are at the Viscount's Manor for Josef's father's funeral, and within a week our belongings have been packed up and are on their way to the Viscount's Manor. I now have a whole new home to get used to.

A small part of me is sad to be leaving our little Manor, but I push it aside. It is sentiment alone that ties me to that place, and sentiment that shouldn't be particularly strong, given how I cannot claim any significant emotional association to the house given how nearly uneventful and mundane my time there has been. It has been a place where I could make my first steps toward building my reputation as a notable noblewoman. Still, it was the place where I first gained my freedom and discovered how pleasant my life could be without my Mother's oppressive presence hanging over my head. I suppose that is reason enough to be a little sentimental about my first home as a grown woman. I shake my head at such musings and remind myself that sentiment should have no place in this situation. It is only a house, I affirm, pushing my sadness at leaving the place I've come to call home behind.

Sentiment is weak and muddles the mind. I need my mind sharp. I have a new home now to get used to, one that is larger and far better appointed. I have a whole new house and staff to acclimatize to my way of doing things. I need to make the house mine, organize things the way I like want them, enforce discipline to meet my own standards, make sure everything is in order. It shouldn't be too difficult. Lady Amherst is a sensible woman, if a little absent minded at times; her home should already be in reasonable order.

More than that, I have a baby to prepare for; an added consideration. I also have a husband to inform on that matter, now that I think of it. Things have been rather too hectic, and in the immediate wake of his father's death and Josef's donning of the Viscount's mantle, it seemed a poor time for that brand of good news. Leaning back in my chair, I pause from my work—perusing lists of my new Manor's furnishings, goods and stores—as I think on breaking the news of my condition to my husband.

Though that afternoon after my husband received the new of the late Viscount's death had become increasingly frantic as preparations to leave for the Viscount's Manor were enacted, I did manage to carve out a few moments to meet with the midwife I had engaged to inquire about my condition. After a slew of pointed and detailed questions and a quick examination, she informed me with no trace of uncertainty that I was indeed pregnant, and that I should likely expect the child to arrive in late-October. It was certainly the one piece of genuine good news from that day, but in the midst of preparing to leave the Hunting Manor for the Viscount's and the ensuing funeral and transition from one house to another and one Lord to another, I have yet to have found an appropriate moment to tell my husband about the good news.

Some good news just now might not be such a bad thing. Josef seems to have taken his father's death quite hard. Though he does not confide in me and I do not know him quite so well as I might were we closer, I do know him well enough after four years of marriage to see in his face that he is overwhelmed and near exhausted by his new responsibilities, and that the nearness of losing his father is not easing the transition for him. Perhaps telling him that I am finally expecting a child, his prospective heir, might be just the thing to put a renewed spring in his step and pull him from the mire of stress and sorrow this recent upheaval in our lives has caused. Pushing back from my little desk in my new sitting room, I wander the halls of our new home in search of Josef, tamping down the anxious flutter of anticipation—excitement?—in my stomach.

I finally find him in his father's, no,  _his_  study, pouring over legal paperwork and accounts as he works to get a handle on the Estate as it stands following his elevation to its Lord. Judging by the way his eyebrows are so furrowed they seem to meet, there is no way I can doubt that he is quite frustrated. He is also quite focused, and doesn't even look up from his work when I enter the study.

I am standing next to him before he even seems to notice me, dropping the sheaf of papers in his hands with little dignity on the deep-coloured oak of the desk. With a heavy sigh, he rests his head in his hands, massaging his temples as though the hard rubbing of his fingers could banish his headache. Impulsively, I move to stand behind his chair, laying my hands on his shoulders and beginning to knead out the tension I find there; his shoulders feel like rock, he is so tense. With another heavy sigh that fades to a groan of relief, he leans back against my fingers, his eyes slipping shut as I work at the knots. I feel a flush rising to my cheeks at how intimate this feels. I'm not sure, but I do believe this might be the first time I have touched him so intimately outside my bedchamber in the years that we've been married...and I am only rubbing my husband's shoulders. This goes on for several long minutes, my hands working across his shoulders, neck and back and him relaxing slowly under my touch, though I barely notice the time passing. I find I am receiving a small measure satisfaction from easing his discomfort like this. It is pleasant in way I had not expected. He reaches up, my hand stilling as he takes it in his. His head tilts back toward me, though he doesn't quite look at me; that would involve twisting and contorting about in his chair, and I can see he is too weary to put in the effort.

"Thank you, Tabitha," he says softly. I am taken aback by how genuinely grateful he sounds. It is something I am entirely unprepared for. I resist snatching my fingers from his shoulders in my discomfiture.

"You are my husband," I force myself to reply, speaking slowly to avoid showing him how uneasy his gratitude has made me, "anything I can do to help. Such is my responsibility as your wife."

"Only responsibility?" He murmurs his own response and it is so quiet I barely hear it. I frown, trying to puzzle out just what he could mean by that. He sighs, though, and continues before I can reach any sort of conclusion. "I apologize, dear wife; I have been neglectful in my own responsibilities toward you. I do not know where all my time goes. Taking up my father's position has turned out to be far more consuming than I anticipated, though it is no excuse. I will do better; I am near to having my affairs and those of the Estate well in hand, I am certain." I pat his shoulder awkwardly with my free hand in a gesture that I hope he will interpret as reassurance. His is still holding tightly to my other hand where it still rests on his shoulder.

"I do not blame you; I understand perfectly that the needs of the Estate through this transition must supersede my own," I say diplomatically, my unease at this sudden intimacy displaced by my ingrained schooling on how to be politic in my responses. "Besides," I add, deciding that this was as good a place as any in our conversation to bring up my news, "I have had distractions of my own that kept me from wondering at yours, and my current condition has left me quite preoccupied, with many preparations to think of and see to before the baby arrives."

This time he does twist around, moving so quickly I am nearly pulled off balance as my free hand was gripping his shoulder as he turns to face me. His eyes meet mine as comprehension of what I have said dawns on him, his mouth parting in astonishment. I find I am suddenly nervous, my stomach fluttering anxiously in anticipation of his reaction. So far, he seems only stunned.

A smile breaks over his face and before I can react further, his is out of his chair and enfolding my in a tight hug. A squeak of surprise escapes my lips. I was certainly not expecting that... He nearly jerks back at the sound and, looking down at me, loosens his grip, as though suddenly conscious that holding me so firmly could hurt me, or more importantly, the baby. It's nice, feeling his arms around me, the warmth of him surrounding me. Nicer than I anticipated it would be. I lean into his embrace for a moment, hesitantly wrapping my own arms around his waist. It feels a little awkward—where am I supposed to rest my hands—but he doesn't seem to mind.

"It is wonderful news you give me, my dear," he says, unable to hide the hint of excitement in his voice, "a wonderful bit of news in this otherwise dreary few months." In that, I can agree with him.

I can also agree that this time of year is excessively dreary. March turning to April was cold, wet and miserable, with the snow reluctant to leave and the rain eager to begin for the year. And it does not stop there. April was much the same, though the snow finally gives up and leaves off until next winter. Yet, under the cool, drizzling rain that epitomized the month this year, the countryside seemed to bloom overnight. The fields go from a stark, wasted brown and gray to vibrant greens. On the trees, where water beads and drips on the spindly branches, the leaves are beginning to appear, tiny and delicate at first, but soon becoming robust and vital as the buds grow and flourish when the gray sky is broken by chilly but wonderfully sunny days that grow longer and more frequent as May arrives. Out in the fields surrounding the Estate, the farmers are hard at work wrapping up their planting and livestock herds have welcomed dozens upon dozens of tiny new additions.

The gardens bloom magnificently as the spring flowers wake to the spring sunshine and stretch themselves free of their winter sleep. It is an indulgence, I know, but as the days grow warmer and the gardens of Amherst Manor return to their full spring vigour, I cannot help myself, and I make sure I always have a few minutes where I can walk among the sprays of lilac, which are just preparing to flower, the hyacinths, the irises, even the magnolias, which seem to me to be blooming a little early this year. Just about every day that I am able, I linger in the small grove of cherry trees on the edge of the garden, the exquisite pink-tinted white petals swishing in the gentle breeze and falling like a soft, floating rain around me, catching in my hair and my skirts, bringing a little reminder of the grove in with me when I am forced to return inside; it is easily my favourite part of the Estate. It is quite easy to lose myself among the mingling perfumes of our gardens, regaling in the sweet, distinctive floral fragrance of the flowers, the sharp, crisp wafts of herbs and the earthy, rich scent of the damp spring loam.

It is a waft of those fragrances, made richer in the heat of the day, that drift in through the open window of my sitting room. As soon as it was warm enough outside, I insisted on them being open whenever the weather is fair. Tonight it is very fair indeed, quite hot, really, as summer is upon us. But now that the daylight has long faded, it has cooled enough that it is now quite pleasant outside. I pause in the midst of my sewing to inhale deeply, letting the soothing scents wash over me. Josef similarly pauses in his reading, glancing up at me.

Since discovering my pregnancy, Josef has taken to spending his evenings in my sitting room with me. To what purpose, I am quite unsure. Mother has taken great pains to inform me that once the deed was done and I had his baby in my belly, my husband would wish to have little to do with me. "Pregnancy is quite unpleasant," she told me sagely in one of her letters—or at least I pretended she was attempting to be sage; far more likely she was being her usual vexing, troublesome self—"once you are pregnant, his interest will wane, and happily for both of you, you need not have much to do with each other until after the birth."

For these last several weeks that he has sat with me, I've been unable to help but watch him suspiciously out of the corner of my eye. And tonight, as with nearly every other night since he learned of the child, now and then I catch him glancing at me with an expression I cannot quite decipher. A few days ago, though, it hit me as I shifted in my seat—fidgeting was quickly scolded out of me when I was a child, so for me to squirm in my seat is testament indeed to my discomfort—when he looked at me with what can only be called concern.

I am still astonished by the realization.

Sighing, I shift in my seat again, the way I often do now, the baby grown so that my condition is plainly visible. Josef is, again, watching me with trepidation, sitting in a way that makes me think he is ready to jump to my side at a word. It is a strange thing to realize.

"Oh," I gasp softly, my musings over Josef's sudden attentiveness interrupted. As I suspected from his posture, Josef is on his feet in an instant, his blue eyes fixed on me as his brow creases in concern. I wave him back absently, faintly annoyed that the baby is making sitting so uncomfortable this evening. "It's nothing, husband. The baby kicked particularly sharply; I was startled. That is all. Sit back down," I urge, not unkindly. I can't help but feel delighted at his sudden attentions. I can honestly say I did not expect them.

He makes as though to sit again, twisting to adjust the cushion against the armrest, but he hesitates. I look over to him, my own brow furrowing at why he would dawdle so. It takes him a try or two, but after a moment he manages to frame a question to me.

"The baby is kicking?" I nod slowly, wondering a little at the careful wistfulness in his voice. After another moment of thinking just how to say what he's considering, he speaks again.

"Might—may I—that is, would you permit me to feel it moving?" He is so quiet I can barely hear him and so nervous that he stumbles over his words, something I've never heard him do. My eyes widen. I had never considered that such a thing would be of interest to him. I had never considered the interest a father might have for his child before it is even born; it has never occurred to me to think about it. I stupidly realize that I have yet to answer him. I silently beckon him over, suddenly feeling as uncertain as he appears to be.

He is almost timid as he walks over to kneel beside my chair, lifting his hand until it hovers over my belly. I can see in his face that he's quite unsure about what to do, what liberty he has to touch me. I nearly sigh with a sudden amused exasperation.

I take his hand, my eyes never leaving his face as I guide his fingers to where the babe is tattooing an insistent beat against the side of my belly. The tenderness and astonishment that comes over his features as he looks at the spot where our child kicks against his hand nearly takes my breath away. He looks like a boy in his wonder, his eyes wide and even a little bright. His fingers press a little more firmly against my side as his lips quirk in delight at how strong the baby is.

Then his gaze shifts to meet mine and I truly can't breathe, for he looks at me with an expression full of nearly the same tenderness that I had imagined would be reserved for his child. My own smile pulls at my lips.

Perhaps there is hope for us yet.


	5. .V.

As the heat of midsummer faded into autumn the glow of pregnancy had long faded under the hot sun and thick air of July and August. September brought some respite with cooler temperatures and crisp autumn air, but October brought the ultimate relief.

Cecily arrived in the early afternoon in the dying days of October.

I was delighted to have my little girl placed in my arms, but for the unpleasant, nagging feeling in the back of my mind that she wasn't a boy. For once, I did not mind and was easily able to ignore my inner critic that has always sounded rather like my Mother. I was too caught up in the happiness that arrived with my daughter. I pointedly ignored the little voice in my head that said Mother would be painfully disparaging in her admonitions once she heard the news and I refused to consider that my husband might be disappointed. He had never said a word throughout the duration of my pregnancy as to his preference for a son, though I expected no less. Of course he would want a boy; a boy would be his heir. There are no laws against daughters inheriting their Father's titles or estates in our Kingdom, as I have heard there are in others—my Mother and I are proof of that—but sons are still very much preferred as heirs.

He was not. It was the ultimate shock to me. He was at home when Cecily arrived, not away at court as he confessed to me later that he feared might be the case, and he was utterly enthralled by my—our—tiny daughter. He has yet to say a word against her being a girl rather than a boy; not even a comment that the next one would be a son.

Mother was. Her letter in response to mine giving her the news was just as scathing and disappointed as I anticipated. Though precisely what control I had over the matter I have yet to discern; its not like I had a conscious choice over my child's gender any more than Mother had over mine. Yet, it really mattered to me quite little at the time, as I was still riding the wave of euphoria that came with pouring over every aspect of my little girl; her tiny hands with their exquisite tiny fingernails, her chubby little feet, her wide, bright eyes like her father's, pert little smiling mouth and exuberant little laugh when she was tickled.

Unfortunately, it matters more now. With the approach of Christmas both my Mother and Josef's mother have come to the Viscount's Manor for the holiday. Lady Amherst I am moderately pleased to see again. She does tend to wear on me a little for, though she is a sweet enough woman, she is also shrill at times and has a sharp tongue when she is upset. Thankfully, she has little reason to be upset. She is immensely pleased with how I have taken over the running of her old household and was quite happy with what I had done to the Hunting Manor, the house she retired to after her husband's passing; she didn't want to be underfoot, she told me after informing us of her decision to take up residence there back in the spring. I suspect it had more to do with the common sense that two mistresses in one house was a poor idea. She is certainly delighted with her little granddaughter and often when I am searching for her, I have found my mother-in-law cooing over little Cecily.

Mother is far less impressed with my daughter, and has made no bones about telling me so. Needless to say, I am far less excited about her presence in my home. There is always something for her to criticize. No matter than I run nearly the most fashionable home in the Kingdom now, there is 'something wanting in your decoration of the secondary parlour' or there is 'a distinct neglected quality to the guest rooms that is certain to leave your visitors feeling offended that you don't care for them as you should.' My tongue and cheeks have become quite sore from the frequency with which I have been biting them to keep from snapping back at her. Never mind that guests of nearly every high-born rank have visited my home and found it delightful and elegant, nor that I have become one of the most esteemed hostesses in the land despite my youth. She easily looks past such commendations straight to my deficiencies. But I have long since learned that nodding and agreeing with my Mother's reproaches and promising to see to them is far less painful than contradicting her.

But, since she has little interest in my daughter save for lamenting that she was not a boy, I have yet to see my Mother anywhere near the nursery. So, my daughter's room has become my refuge. I close the door quietly behind me, holding in a sigh of relief as the sounds of our guests diminish with the thick door closed behind my back. Mother and Captain Steffan are having some sort of disagreement with Josef's younger brother Georg, while Lady Amherst is attempting to mediate with little success. I'm not even entirely certain where Josef is. With an absent gesture, I send Cecily's nurse to wait in the next room, desirous of a few moments alone with my baby. Allowing my courteous mask to drop the instant the plump woman is out of sight, I am leaning over cradle in an heartbeat, greeted by my daughter's cheerful burbling coos, her little arms waving up at me as I reach for her. I can feel my body relaxing as her squirming warmth settles into my arms, her little hands grasping at my curls. Unable to help myself, I coo back at her as I pace around the room, my feet dancing a little as I hum my Papa's waltz.

"I knew you'd be likely to coddle any babies that came along." I manage to keep my jaw from snapping shut in dismay, though I can feel my back straighten habitually at the tone my Mother used. I hadn't even heard her approach or the sound of the door opening. I force myself to recover quickly, turning around to face her.

"Surely there is nothing wrong with wanting to hold my firstborn," I respond calmly, keeping my arms relaxed around Cecily. As if sensing the tension in the room, Cecily stills, looking up at me with her wide eyes. I smile sweetly down at her, hoping to reassure her after the harsh bite of my Mother's voice. I would not let my Mother see how much she'd shaken me. As always, she seemed to know anyway. Her eyes glint, and her nose wrinkles as a hint of a smirk curls her lip

"Perhaps if it had been a boy, an heir. But a girl? No. She's not worth the time." This time I cannot not help but gape. That she would be so disparaging of her own sex's worth? Even knowing her character as I do, I am taken aback at her assertion.

Was that what she thought of me? Was that how she had spoken of me when I was a new babe?

She ignores my astonished reaction, looking critically around the nursery, tutting with disappointment as she fingers the furnishings.

"Surely you could have managed something better than this," she chides, her nose wrinkling at the antique cradle placed in the centre of the room and poking at the gossamer curtains I had draped around it. As she looks up at me, she wipes her finger on one of the soft blankets, as thought even touching the piece somehow sullied her hands. I try to bite my tongue, but this time I can't quite manage it.

"It is an Amherst heirloom," I explain, imagining my voice is coated with honey to keep from sounding aggravated, "every Amherst baby since my husband's great-grandfather has lain in that cradle. My husband the Viscount insisted that we continue the tradition with his firstborn child and any that follow." I emphasize Josef's title, unable to resist a dig of my own. Mother sniffs at the clarification, obviously disparaging of the tradition. I hold back the urge to simultaneously roll my eyes and scowl at her. I don't mind the tradition in the slightest. I think it is a beautiful cradle. It is elegantly constructed of deep-coloured cherry-wood with beautifully painted scenes from old stories around the sides. The head and footboard are intricately decorated with carvings of flowers, leaves and all manner of protective sprites, all lovingly painted and gilded with life-like vibrancy. When the housekeeper had it brought out of storage to show me, I instantly approved. It is a cradle fit for the most noble of children.

Of course Mother disapproves.

"Well," she waves off my words and strides back toward the nursery doors, "put the baby away and come back downstairs at once. There are details to be arranged before attending the Ball tomorrow night. I trust you have at least managed to arrange invitations for your Stepfather, your brother and myself," she adds imperiously. She doesn't even wait for my answer before disappearing out into the hallway. It takes a great deal of effort to keep my hands from tightening around Cecily in my anger at Mother's presumptuous and insulting behaviour. But I obey her nonetheless, tenderly laying my daughter back in her cradle and summoning the nurse back to watch her.

She is right in one respect; there is still a great deal to be done in preparation for the King's Ball tomorrow. With a sigh, I resign myself to seeing to the list I have worked up in my head of things left to be done.

Every year, between Christmas and the New Year, the King holds a Ball to confirm and celebrate the investiture of those new to their titles. Because of Josef's inheritance of his Father's title since the last Celebration, this year he is one of the new Lords to be confirmed in their position. It is exciting, for it means that not only am I to go to the Palace for the first time, but I am to attend a Royal Ball. It is a test above all others for my self-control, for I am, truly, excited.

Mother always said that undue excitement betrayed a lack of refinement and control. So I hide my excitement, even as I stand patiently while Gina puts the final touches on my new dress…a ball gown, the most elegant and lavish gown I think I have ever worn. It is fitted to my body above my waist and flaring out wider than any gown I'd had below my waist. It is a beautiful rich wine red trimmed with paler red accents and blue jewels that sparkle in the candlelight. My pale skins glows like marble and the vibrant colour makes my dark eyes appear luminous and even more intense than usual.

Despite the anticipation churning in my belly, I am excited. But I will appear poised, collected. I will look radiant, pleased, dignified, but I won't let myself look excited or giddy, no matter that I feel like vibrating and hopping with my delight.

And I certainly won't betray my disappointment that my Mother and Stepfather must accompany me. For a short time, I debated telling her that I was unable to get her an invitation; it was too last minute, none of my contacts who could have seen to it responded in time, or any number of other perfectly plausible explanations. But I did not do any such thing. I was far too eager to prove that I could rather than pretend I could not simply to spite her. I wrote to a handful of my most influential of contacts and managed to get my Mother, her son and her husband a place on the guest list.

My own instincts, partnered with the lessons I received from Lady Meyer and my mother-in-law, Lady Amherst, mean that I have a talent for throwing dinners and parties that are both memorable, entertaining and, perhaps most importantly of all, sophisticated and fashionable. With the rules and etiquettes and formalities Mother and Bonner drilled into my head, and the lessons in more practical aspects of being a sociable lady and perfect hostess from Lady Meyer, polished by Lady Amherst, I have yet to be at a loss for what to do, what to say, or how to act around anyone of any rank in any situation I have encountered so far. It also means that because of my promising reputation, I am on speaking and easy correspondence terms with several influential members of the King's Court.

Dislike her, even hate her as I am sometimes wont too, I cannot deny that Mother, with the help of her puppet Bonner, helped mould me into the perfect hostess and a highly accomplished noblewoman. That I have and excellent memory has not hurt either. Bonner was always very keen to ensure that I cultivated that. And it has proven a most valuable tool. I rarely forget a name or a title or any number of bits of information about my acquaintances once I am introduced, though faces I have a little more trouble holding on to. It means I knew exactly who to contact to get my Mother, Herbert and Captain Steffan invitations.

But I am under little obligation to pay obeisance to my Mother all evening. I am a Viscountess now, and tonight is to celebrate my husband coming into his title. I would be perfectly within my rights to ignore my upstart Mother all evening should I choose. It is a power I exercise as Josef and I descend to the waiting carriages. There are two waiting; my stepfather's and ours. It cheers me to notice how much more splendid our carriage is and how elegant our matched bay horses are compared to my stepfather's. I breeze past my Mother on my Viscount husband's arm, barely sparing her a look as he guides me to our carriage. I fight back an undignified smirk at how scandalized and incensed Mother looks in her borderline vulgar gown; it is entirely too richly bedecked for her station, and she looks cheap for it. I know I am going to pay for my audacity later, but for now I mean to enjoy it. With a huff, Mother all but storms to her own carriage, ignoring her husband's proffered hand. I fight back a second smirk, hiding it behind my mild smile.

Accepting my own husband's hand up into the carriage, he climbs in after me, careful not to tread on my skirts. Behind us, the door clicks shut, and with a sharp word from the footman and a snap of the coachman's whip, we are off to the Ball. Thankfully, Amherst Manor is not terribly far from the Palace, but it still takes plenty of time for us to get there, allowing plenty of time for thoughts to bounce and jangle around in my head, especially given the spare conversation from Josef. I have a several recurring moments of numbing worry for my little Cecily—this is the first time I have left home without her—but I remind myself firmly that she is in her nurse's capable hands. But as I repeatedly force myself to move past my anxiety for my little daughter, my excitement is once again free to continue building in my chest.

I have never been to a Royal Ball before. I feel like I'm sitting on pins and needles as our carriage makes the final approach to the Palace along a grand avenue of magnificent hundred-year oaks, each one bedecked with glimmering garlands and hanging lanterns.

Then the Palace proper comes into view. I cannot help the gasp that escapes my lips. It is beyond anything I have seen. It takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep from hanging out the window like a country-bumpkin to stare at the vista before me.

Though the carriage has been travelling steadily uphill, the Palace sits in a valley, surrounded on three sides by hills covered with lush forest, though this time of year it appears a bit ragged with many trees leafless for the winter. Of course in the dimming twilight, those woods, even given the cheery atmosphere of the evening, loom like a protective guard around the golden seat of the King, bare branches jutting like spikes over the road where, in the summer, feathery boughs of leaves would throw their shade. But the Palace itself occupies the centre of a great plain in the cradle of the valley, resplendent in hundreds, no, thousands of glittering lights. It gleams in the night, glowing amid the snow-covered forest around it like a crown of purest marble and gilt sitting upon a satin pillow.

On the other side of the carriage, Josef is watching me, a hint of a smile on his face as he takes in the excitement that I cannot quite hide. I can't help but smile back. It is peculiar having my husband taking such an interest in me, even used to it as I have become over the course of my pregnancy with Cecily. I expected to return to our habitual indifference toward each other now that he could lavish attentions on Cecily directly. And so far I have been proven right in my prediction. But this sudden interest tonight inspires a tiny flutter of hope to wake in me, no matter that I try to restrain it. Normally, I scoff at hope—it has done me little good up to this point except prepare me for disappointment—but there is something heady and intoxicating in the atmosphere this evening. Perhaps I am right to hope.

Not soon enough, our carriage rolls to a stop at the base of the Palace steps. With a click, the latch of the door is loosed and it swings open. I follow Josef out and, as courtesy dictates, he is waiting with an offered hand to help me down. And then we are mounting the steps up to the immense doors of the Palace. Even with the cool mid-winter temperatures they are flung wide open, easily able to accommodate four Ladies with skirts wider than mine along with their escorts. And the sight of those Ladies and their Lords in their dazzling array of party dress is enough to render me speechless. It takes more effort than I have ever needed to expend before to keep my face pleasantly neutral and not gawk at the scope and splendidness of the scene around me.

And we are only in the Entrance Hall of the Palace, not even in the Ballroom proper. There is a string quartet serenading the arriving guests and Josef and I barely step over the expansive threshold before waiting butlers are there to collect and stow away our cloaks and stoles. With an amused quirk of his eyebrow, Josef takes my hand again and leads me onward down the long Gallery immediately adjacent the Entrance Hall. It is taller and more grand than the entryway by half, with rich paintings of past Kings and Queens of our land lining the walls on one side and an immense, unending bank of beautiful clear and stained glass windows on the other. I fight back a welling of sadness in the back of my mind; I was supposed to walk down this hall for the first time on my Papa's arm. At the end of the Gallery we come to a flight of stairs made of the prettiest golden yellow marble I have ever seen.

Then we are in the Great Ballroom and a Crier announces our arrival. I pause at the top of the pair of Grand Staircases, each one curving down to the ground floor on either side of the balcony Josef and I now stand on. Across the cavernous expanse of the room, sitting on another stairless but matching balcony, is the figure of the King and his Queen, tiny for the distance between them and me. Directly below them is a landing with two great thrones set upon it. Two similarly grand staircases curl down to it from the level of the King's balcony and a third flaring staircase completes the journey to the ballroom floor. A wide walkway is set into the walls around the perimeter of the Ballroom both on the upper level were I am and down below. I imagine the one up here would ultimately lead to the balcony where our rulers sit surveying the entrance of their guests.

Huge columns, similarly inset against the walls, ring the immense room, providing spaces around which guests can congregate while staying out of the way of the dancers. And behind the columns giant, soaring windows that stretch from the floor to the soaring painted ceiling look out at the night sky, the glass doors at their bases and the level above flung wide open to terraces and balconies overlooking the snow covered gardens; even before the dancing has truly begin, the Ballroom is near stifling hot, and the cold breeze wafting through them is a godsend.

And oh the dancers! Though we are by no means late to the Ball, there is already a small collection of couples weaving and gliding across the polished marble floors to the quiet music the orchestra, nestled perfectly within the arms of the huge twin staircases Josef and I are about to descend, is playing, despite the fact that the ball hasn't officially commenced yet.

Over our heads five huge crystal and gold chandeliers hang down the centre of the Ballroom with twelve smaller but no less impressive chandeliers flanking them. The huge chamber is awash with light, every surface gleaming and glittering. Warm light from thousands of candles flashes off the Ladies' jewels and the polished leather boots of the gentlemen shine. Meticulously cleaned old candelabras are paired with the huge columns and the rich swathes of fabric that make up the drapes for the huge windows are pulled back in thick, luxurious folds of blue and gold.

It is not quite exactly as I pictured it, but better, somehow truer to the words my Papa had used than my imagination had been. It is not so ostentatiously opulent as I imagined, but no less luxurious and sumptuous in its older, more refined beauty. A thickness rises in my throat, and for the briefest of moments I fear I am about to start crying. It is so beautiful, just as Papa always described. I can picture him joyfully leading the orchestra through one of his compositions while the dancers spin and fly over the beautifully patterned marble.

I wish he were here with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Lovelies. I need some feedback. Having given Tabitha a look and I need some honest assessment:
> 
> Is the First Person Point of View working?   
> I honestly can't tell. One minute I love it the next....
> 
> Or should I stick with my strength and convert it to Limited Third?
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	6. .VI.

Fingers squeeze questioningly over mine, and I look over to my husband to see a faint frown creasing his brow. I take a deep steadying breath and smile reassuringly at him.

"My Papa told me of the Palace when I was a little girl," I blurt out, surprised at the compulsion at first. But it feels good to share it, I realize as the words continue to tumble out of my mouth. "It is exactly as I imagined, just as magnificent as he described." The crease between Josef's brow fades to be replaced with an indulgent smile.

"It certainly is that," he responds, gently pulling on my hand to guide me down the steps out and among the growing assemblage of Nobles.

We do not have to wait long for the ceremonial portion of the evening to commence. It goes surprisingly quickly. The centre of the dance floor clears and a long royal blue carpet is laid down the length of the Ballroom with the King and Queen taking up their thrones on the landing below their balcony, surrounded by a clutch of their closest friends, officials and advisors. Then, as their name and new title is called, each Noble new to their position is beckoned forward to present themselves before the King to affirm their loyalty to the crown and receive the crown's blessing. I must admit, my husband strikes a rather dashing figure in his navy jacket and pale blue trim as he strides toward the King, bending in an elegant bow before him. I cannot help but smile proudly. Then, to my delight, as he returns to my side and once again takes my hand, he presses a kiss to my knuckles. I preen at the attention, not in the least bit bashful at the devotion paid me by the gesture.

Then, as the orchestra strikes up with a merry traditional tune, King Aldric leads Queen Yolande in the first dance, and the Ball itself has officially begun.

If it was a beautiful sight with only a handful of dancers, it is truly breathtaking when the floor is filled with them, the complicated choreography of so many dancers simply astounding. I long to join them, my feet practically dancing already beneath my voluminous burgundy skirts.

But it would seem the feeling of hope I'd had as we'd driven up the carriageway splutters as song after song strikes up and then concludes without a single turn about the dance floor, and I can feel my optimism slowly fading away to nothing as the evening wears on. Not once has Josef asked if I would dance. Others have, but my husband has not, and it is not proper for a Lady to accept another gentleman's offer until she has danced at least once with her husband. My husband is off somewhere, having excused himself from my side as the Royal couple completed the first dance of the evening, now no doubt talking and laughing with his sporting friends. I have only caught glimpses of him across the crowded room since he left me. I have long since given up trying to get near him, much less spend time with him.

Instead, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, I decide obstinately to flout convention—not quite such an easy decision—and I smile and allow the others who have asked me for the pleasure of a dance to guide me around the grand dance floor. It is exquisitely patterned yellow and pale blue marble, quite unlike anything I have ever seen.

I am growing tired. It hasn't been all that long since Cecily was born, and I haven't quite regained my former energy yet. Not that anyone would know from looking at me; something I'm rather proud of. I can see Mother eyeing me suspiciously, as if waiting for my control to slip. But I will not let it. I stand straight, light on my feet; I don't let my eyes droop, as they are wont to, but keep them up and as engaged as I can. I always have the faint, secret smile I have schooled myself to perfect since my wedding, periodically allowing myself a wider, brighter smile. I am well aware that I am entrancing.

I know I will never be considered pretty. But I will own I am content with that. In my experience, 'pretty' is fleeting, vapid, without real substance. No; my features are too striking for pretty; not soft and delicate enough. I am beautiful. I am also vain. I will not deny it. I will not apologize for it. And any man would be lucky to have me on their arm.

I look surreptitiously around as I am dancing, looking for my husband, wondering if he sees that I am the most beautiful woman on the dance floor, wondering if he will perhaps think that he is the luckiest man here. I catch a glimpse of him once, during a particularly quick-paced dance that has my cheeks flushed and my lips smiling. He barely even glances at me. It is nearly enough to drive the smile from my face.

I am lively, but not too bubbly; that would be inappropriate and insipid. No matter that my husband will barely look at me tonight, I am in top form.

My conversation is engaging and I make those gathering around me laugh with my cleverness. Mother ought to be proud. I am soon the Lady of the Ball, the centre of attention to rival all others. She should be pleased to have raised such an accomplished and flourishing young Noblewoman.

I quickly find I know more people than I had anticipated, and I had realistically anticipated knowing a great many people. It seems Lady Reinhart wasn't exaggerating at my last dinner party when she said visits to first our Hunting Manor and later Amherst Manor were quite the talk of the Court. Many of my past guests are here tonight and all great me warmly, reiterating praises of the last dinner of mine they attended or recounting a particularly memorable moment that has stuck with them since.

My reputation as a hostess of worth started out small. Though out of the way and virtually out of sight from the Court, the Hunting Manor was well situated in the part of the Kingdom known for its rich hunting and sport. As an avid sportsman himself, Josef would often invite his friends to stay with us so they could partake of their amusements in comfort. Taught to strive for perfection as I am, I made the best of efforts to give exceptional picnic luncheons while out on hunts, good dinners when not and diverting evening entertainment for my husband's guests; it is my responsibility as a wife and admittedly a great source of pride for me.

But then it began to grow. As I perfected my hostess skills on my husband's friends—many of whom my skills were frankly lost upon—time passed and his bachelor friends married. Before long their wives, on hearing of my efforts, decided it would be worthwhile to visit themselves, given my new attentions to making a visit to our Hunting Manor about more than just sporting. It would seem I impressed many of these nobly-born and well educated ladies, for word began to spread that I hosted noteworthy and rather elegant events and dinners despite our somewhat provincial Manor. My reputation has begun to spread farther than I anticipated, and in recent months, more and more distinguished guests have begun inviting themselves along with acquaintances and friends that Josef or I had invited for visits. Our little Manor had earned the reputation as a wonderful retreat of some consequence and the compliments to my position as its Lady have not stopped yet this evening even though we have not resided there in months.

And now that Josef and I have taken up the position of Viscount and Viscountess of the Amherst Estate, I now have the resources and use of the grander Amherst Manor nearer to the Palace and the heart of the Kingdom. Needless to say, my little events and dinners have begun to grow into great parties and banquets that are the talk of the Court.

I can't help but preen, hard-pressed to keep the delighted grin from my face when I think on how far I have risen.

More than that, members of the Court who say they have heard wonderful things about my events are approaching me and even hint that they would not be upset to receive an invitation in the future.

I cannot restrain myself from glancing, triumphant, at my Mother as I am speaking with Lord Heeren, an Earl and friend to the King. Something she doesn't notice—or ignores, a little part of me jabs—instead focusing all her attention on Herbert, my half-brother; she is hard at work trying to scope out a good match for him, it seems.

I resist fiddling with my rings in annoyance, instead returning my attention to the Earl, who is intent on reliving an amusing card game he won at my last dinner. I take some comfort that I am far more popular and prominent than my Mother.

At least I have that small consolation.

With a magnanimous smile and small curtsey I am finally able to turn away from Earl Heeren—no easy task, that is certain—and I nearly run right into Richard.

At first I am unable to do anything but stare at him. How he has changed! He was only sixteen the last time I saw him, and I was fourteen, both of us barely more than children. He is taller now, taller than I am though not quite as tall as Josef. His chestnut hair is longer, and tied back at the nape of his neck with a simple black ribbon. He is handsome, I notice with a jolt; he had always been a good-looking boy. Now he was a truly handsome man with good, strong features that have not been coarsened by hardship. But there is still a trace of the boy I befriended in his twinkling eyes and easy smile. I cannot help but smile back, belatedly realizing that, as he now outranks me—a Count standing over a Viscountess—I really should be curtseying. As I begin to drop into such a curtsey, the hem of my skirts pooling around my feet, his hand darts out, brushing against my elbow. The familiarity of the gesture causes me to pause, which was just as he intended, I imagine.

"No need for that," he says cheerfully. I fight the long dormant urge to quirk a sceptical eyebrow before correcting him the way I used to when we were children. Despite the years, it feels like nothing has changed…but also like everything has. I ignore the way my skin seems to tingle where his fingertips brushed against my elbow despite the fabric of my high black gloves.

"No?" I query lightly back, "But you are a Count now, and I am only a Viscountess." He shrugs lightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he holds back a chuckle.

"As far as I see it, you are Tabitha and I am Richard," he counters with ease, his eyes turning serious for a moment, "nothing more nor less than that." My cheeks warm inexplicably. It is wildly inappropriate. Surprisingly, doesn't bring out the annoyed reaction such lapses in others usually provoke in me. I look away, gazing out at the dancers. I can feel myself shifting with the music but I don't bother to stop myself.

"Is it just as you imagined?" My startled gaze jumps back to Richard as he speaks, and I see the knowing look in his eye; I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose, that he remembered. He was always good at that. I told him on that fateful day at the funeral of my Papa's stories, and I vaguely remember imagining aloud what a Ball at the Palace must be like.

"Much more," I breathe inadvertently. My cheeks are warming again. I cover with a nonchalant tilt of my head, continuing more purposefully: "I imagine they are rather a bore to you now; as an In-Law of the King I imagine you attend Balls here quite regularly." He shrugs. Such a provincial response, my Mother's voice echoes inside my head. I ignore it; I find the gesture charming on him. He smiles wistfully after a moment, leaning in closer to me so that he may speak quietly, his hand coming to rest lightly near my shoulder blade.

"They do get rather boring after awhile. But this," he gestures absently to the brilliant swirl of gowns and weaving of the dancers, "never fails to take my breath away." His eyes are still fixed firmly on me. As he dips close, his breath stirs the tendrils of hair curling about my neck. It feels like my heart is stuttering in my chest. I laugh weakly, and a shiver runs up my spine at the sensation. I'm not quite sure what he meant by that; he couldn't have been referring to me, could he? That would be most inappropriate…and most exhilarating. The wise thing to do would be to ignore the comment or brush it aside. I don't know if I can do that.

"Goodness, Richard! You are starting to sound like a courtier!" Oh, the effort to keep my voice light. His gaze doesn't waver, though it does soften a little. That contagious grin returns. What is he doing to me? I can barely seem to breathe, and the flush in my cheeks deepens. It feels like his fingers are burning me through the bodice and corsets of my gown.

"Well, Yolande makes me spend enough time here; I suppose it must be rubbing off on me," he jokes back. And the tension is gone, the familiarity of my childhood friend back in the body of the handsome man standing beside me. Beyond us the music slows, and the couples in the centre of the floor still, turning to applaud the orchestra. I fight back a sigh; I have danced so little this night. I can't help but be wistful as I watch others preparing to step onto the dance floor.

"Would you care to dance, My Lady Viscountess," Richard asks me suddenly with playful formality, his eyes sparkling with mirth as a smile tugs at his mouth. I feel my own smile rise to answer his yet again.

"It would be a pleasure, My Lord Count," I say formally back, placing my hand in his. As his fingers close around mine and the first strains of music waft through the air, my breath catches; my Papa's waltz. I catch Richard grinning mischievously. He knows what this piece means to me.

As the music strikes up he leads me out onto the dance floor, he lifts my hand in his and places his other at my waist. A slight shiver runs through me as the warmth of his hand again seeps through the layers of fabric enclosing my waist.

Though it really has been many years, I barely need to think to match my steps to his. Dancing with Richard brings back so many memories. We learned to dance together, under Lady's Meyer's tutelage. Dancing with him again feels like a matter of instinct. Every move he makes, every turn, every step, hold no hesitation. I can't help but relax in his embrace, knowing as I do that there is no need for me to check my steps or surreptitiously guide my partner, knowing how well he knows to dance himself. I just let it happen.

I don't even notice the floor clearing around us, or that Richard and my turns grow more sweeping. I can't process that my gown is no longer brushing or catching on other skirts, nor that dozens, if not hundreds, of eyes are fixed solely on us, the sensation of being at the centre of attention melting away. I don't think on how perfectly matched we seem, I just dance with him. It is effortless.

I always enjoy dancing, I always have. There's something pleasing about matching my steps to the music, allowing the beat and the rhythm to sweep me away as I glides across the floor; I feel lighter than air. But dancing at dinners or parties, even dancing so far tonight has become a tempered amusement; few partners I've had are more than passingly skilled and fewer skilled have actual intent to enjoy it. I am rarely permitted to truly allow myself to enjoy dancing anymore.

But with Richard I am free to bask in every aspect. I can't resist smiling at how wonderful truly being able to  _dance_  is. This time it's his smile that answers mine and I withhold a gasp of pleasure as his hand on my waist tightens, pulling me almost imperceptibly closer. I perceive it, and I can feel my cheeks flushing at how intimate it feels, no matter that there is absolutely nothing indelicate or inappropriate for the onlookers and the rest of the court to titter about.

Nothing else exists except Richard, me and my Papa's music guiding us across the floor.

It is a moment that seems to last forever.

It's a moment where I nearly feel like I could, nearly, believe in magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Lovelies. I need some feedback. Having given Tabitha a look and I need some honest assessment:
> 
> Is the First Person Point of View working?   
> I honestly can't tell. One minute I love it the next....
> 
> Or should I stick with my strength and convert it to Limited Third?
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you enjoyed, please be sure to leave a comment letting me know what you think! Even if you didn't, I'd love to hear why!
> 
> I'll take whatever feedback I can get if it helps me make this story the best it can be! :)


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